


Irrational but Well-Rounded

by cloudsandpassingevents, jacquessaintlaurent



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Baking, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Pi Day, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed, and sleep together, but not SLEEP together, pies as an excuse to touch butts, pretend that this isn't 2 weeks late for actual pi day, ya feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6393532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsandpassingevents/pseuds/cloudsandpassingevents, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacquessaintlaurent/pseuds/jacquessaintlaurent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pi Day 2015 is filled with two of Bitty's favorite things: pies, and a certain well-built Samwell Men's Hockey team captain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irrational but Well-Rounded

At 6:28 AM on Sunday, March 14, Dex is woken up by the loudest pounding he's ever heard in his life. For a second, he blearily thinks Nursey got locked out again, but when he looks over at the other bed, Nursey’s still motionless under the covers, one leg sticking out from the covers.

He checks his computer. Sunday morning. He doesn't even have classes. He rolls back over and groans, pulling a pillow over his head. Maybe if he ignores it long enough, it'll stop. 

The banging doesn't stop. 

Finally, resigning himself to the fact that he's going to have to leave his blankets eventually, he stands up and walks over to the door, yanking it open. “What the fuck do you–”

Shitty shoves a pad of paper and a pen into his hands. “Five favorite pies. Now.”

Dex blinks. He looks down at the pad and pen in his hand. Back at Shitty. Blinks again. “I'm sorry, what–”

Rans and Holster suddenly materialize behind Shitty–were they always there? They're both wearing sunglasses even though the sun hasn't come up, and matching shirts that say “Cooking Pie With My Bitty.” 

“Do what the man says,” Holster says seriously, while Rans bumps past Dex to where Nursey’s still sleeping like a baby, rubbing his hands gleefully. 

“Nursey!” he calls, before grabbing the blankets and pulling them off the bed–and Nursey with them. He hits the ground with a solid thump, and a muffled groan comes from the mass of blankets. 

“What the hell, man, I was sleeping–” Nursey’s head emerges from one lump of blanket, only to be hit by the legal pad and pen Rans dumps on it. 

“Five favorite pies,” he says seriously, before he pushes back past Dex out of the room. 

“We need those lists by 7 AM, so get cracking,” Shitty says, turning away from the door, and Dex finally remembers how to talk.

“Wait,” he says, still clutching the pad and pen against his chest. “Why the fuck are we doing this?”

All three of them freeze. For a second, Dex wonders if he's said something wrong, if there's some secret tradition that he's ruining by asking too many questions and now they're gonna have to throw him out of the Haus because he offended the spirit of hockey and brought a curse upon himself that makes it so none of his checks will ever connect again and he’ll be in the penalty box for eternity. 

Shitty slowly turns around, pulls his sunglasses down with one finger. Dex thinks that they can probably hear his gulp from across the hall where they're standing. 

Very seriously, Shitty says:

“It's Pi Day.” 

 

_X_

 

By 8 AM, the entire Haus is already up and running, moving beer to the basement, cleaning mixing bowls and pie tins and rolling pins, and making lists and lists of pies to stick onto the refrigerator.

Ransom and Holster stand on either side of the door of the kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at anyone getting too close. “What the hell, man?” a frog asks, bewildered, as Ransom steps in front of him, blocking the door.

Holster shakes his head slowly, “Don’t. Go. In,” he says, enunciating every word clearly. “You’ll see why in a couple of hours.”

Frustrated, the frog backs away, muttering about crazy hockey players and this fucking team and why did he even come to the Haus this fucking early he didn't even live here anyways. 

Ransom snorts. “You’ll see why in a bit,” Holster repeats, ignoring the dirty glare the frog shoots him. 

Right on cue, footsteps come pounding down the stairs. Rans and Holster automatically snap to attention, backs ramrod straight against the door. “Fall in!” Rans shouts, and every upperclassman immediately steps backwards, dragging underclassmen with them until there’s a pathway cleared between the staircase and the kitchen.

“What’s going on,” Chowder whispers loudly to Dex and Nursey, who have both dragged him backwards by the shoulders to a corner of the living room near the kitchen door. Nursey shrugs. “Just go with it, man,” he says.

“I don’t know why I even ask questions anymore,” Dex mutters from the other side of Chowder, before his voice devolves into flustered spluttering as Nursey drags him into a headlock.

“I don’t know why you do, either,” Nursey says, unruffled, as Bitty appears at the bottom of the staircase, an apron already tied around his waist and a stack of papers clutched in his hand.

He surveys the crowd for a second, which has gone silent. Then he turns to Rans and Holster. “Everyone’s got their pie orders in?” he asks.

Rans nods, once. “In the kitchen.”

A slow smile spreads over Bitty’s face. “Gentlemen,” he says. “It’s time to get baking.”

 

_X_

 

Everyone clears out pretty quickly after that, and for a while, the only sound in the Haus is of Bitty puttering around the kitchen, pans clattering and the steady hum of the oven heating up.

Then, abruptly, the silence is shattered.

“I TOLD YOU TO GET BUTTER!”

Shitty backs away, hands up. “I did!”

“You got TWO STICKS of butter. How am I supposed to survive pi day with only two sticks of butter?” Little puffs of flour fly from Bitty’s hands as he jabs a finger at Shitty, still rolling out dough with the other hand. 

“What’s going on?” Jack’s face peeks out from behind the doorframe, his brows furrowed.

“Thank fuck, Jack,” Shitty exhales, shoulders slumping in relief. He beats a quick retreat from in front of Betsey, where he’s been standing, and pulls Jack into the kitchen, half-standing behind him like he’s trying to use Jack as a shield. “You can bring Bitty shopping for more butter, right?”

“I, uh. What?” Jack blinks, slowly.

Shitty grabs Bitty under one arm and Jack with his other hand, pushing them out of the kitchen and out of the door. “Go to the murder Stop and Shop. Everything will be okay,” he soothes, then slams the door in their faces.

Jack and Bitty blink at each other. Bitty still has a dot of flour on his nose. Jack reaches out, his thumb stuck in his sleeve, and dusts it off lightly. “Well, I guess it’s to the murder Stop and Shop, eh?” he says, heading down the stairs and completely oblivious to the bright red creeping into Bitty’s cheeks.

Bitty still has around fifty more pies to bake and the entire reason he asked Shitty to go get butter was so he could spend more time in the kitchen baking, and he means to tell Jack exactly what he thinks of all of this, but all that comes out is, “You’re paying.”

 

_X_

 

“ _ How _ many sticks of butter do you need?” Jack asks, a note of shock in his voice.

“You listen here, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty starts. He’s had to defend his use of butter many, many, times, to trainers and coaches far more intimidating than Jack Zimmermann. “If you want me to make you pies, I’ll make them my way. I am  _ not  _ going to commit travesties on pastries for the sake of your diet.”

French-Canadian hockey players, though, are apparently much more stubborn than any of Bitty’s trainers have ever been. “Does that mean I’ve been eating a third of a stick of butter every time I eat a slice of your pie?”

Bitty opens his mouth to tell Jack it’s more like a half of a stick of butter, but then thinks better of it. “Don’t you worry, Jack, I promise your abs are still spectacular, no matter how many of my pies you eat.”

He doesn’t realize his mistake until it’s too late. Jack turns to him, a corner of his mouth turned up and his eyebrow crooked, and Bitty knows in that instant he’s about to be chirped within an inch of his life. “You look at my abs, Bittle?”

Blushing furiously, Bitty fervently hopes that this never gets around to the rest of the team. “You–we shower together, okay?” he says, turning back to the butter and hoping that the cold air from the fridge forces the heat in his cheeks away. “I can’t–it’s not like I can really  _ not _ see it, and it’s not like you’ve never seen me shirtless either, okay, I’m not paying attention to your abs in particular, I just noticed–you know what you should do? Go grab me some strawberries, okay, Shitty didn’t get enough for the strawberry cream pies and they’re his own darn pies, too, so just be a dear and grab some for me, okay? Great.”

Jack stands there for a second, blinks once. “Okay,” he finally says, apparently electing to completely ignore Bitty’s mini-breakdown, which Bitty is completely okay with. “Anything else you need?”

“Grab some more peaches,” Bitty says, digging in the back of the butter shelves for the fresher ones and very determinedly not making eye contact. “I don’t think we have enough at the Haus.”

“Georgia peaches?” Jack asks innocently.

“Jack Zimmerman, do not  _ start–”  _

“I’m going,” Jack says, but Bitty can hear the smirk in his voice without even looking.

As soon as his footsteps fade down the hall, Bitty groans, closing his eyes and sticking his face farther into the freezer. “Lord,” he mutters to himself, before shaking his head and grabbing two more sticks of butter for good measure. He can’t do this now, not when there are pies in the oven for him to check on.

Straightening up, he checks over his supplies again: butter, flour, blueberries for Holster’s pie, cream–everything looks good. Bitty runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath, and then heads towards the fruit section. Time to get those pies done.

 

_X_

 

At the end of the day, after getting back from dinner, Bitty makes a beeline for the kitchen.

“The pies are done cooling, y’all!”

With those words, the entire Haus descends on Bitty in a rush of chaos and clanking cutlery and hollers of “I WANT MY PIE FIRST!”

From there it’s a flurry of plates and pies and eating–every person on the Samwell Men’s Hockey team had their favorite pie made, something of a Pi Day miracle. So it’s understandable how they don't notice that their captain isn't among them–along with one of the three apple pies that Bitty had baked for the occasion.

Bitty glances at the frogs, who had taken to Pi Day first with hesitance, then cautious enthusiasm, and finally unbridled joy and gluttony.  _ Fitting right in, then _ , Bitty thinks, holding a maple crusted apple pie, before he heads up the stairs to find Jack.

 

_X_

 

Jack is, predictably, in his room, tapping away on his laptop–most likely working on a paper. Since the door is open a crack, Bitty knocks to let Jack know he’s there, then lets himself in. Jack turns around as Bitty kicks the door closed behind him, smiling slightly. “Is that one of your butter-filled pies?”

Bitty gives him a dirty look, setting the pie down on the nearest flat surface. “Don’t act like you’re not practically drooling at the thought of eating this pie. Look, I even brought up forks and plates. I baked this pie especially for you. It would be rude if you didn’t eat it.”

The “rude” part is probably what convinces the Canadian in Jack, because he laughs and stands up, reaching out for a plate and slice of pie. As he does, a bit of his shirt rides up, revealing a dark dusting of hair trailing from his navel down into the low waistline of his sweats. 

Bitty trips on nothing.

Before he can hit the ground, thick, strong arms grab at him, hoisting him him up a bit awkwardly. As Jack pushes Bitty up, his hands brush down Bitty’s body - and that is definitely Jack’s hand. Jack’s hand on Bitty’s butt.

Bitty’s mind stops working for a second. He can feel himself flushing redder than the apples he used for Jack’s pie. Jack doesn’t move, either, and Bitty realizes it’s because he’s still leaning into Jack’s touch–that Jack’s still supporting his weight. And his butt, which. When Bitty thinks about that, his brain fizzles out again, so he focuses his attention on righting himself and reaching for the pie like a lifeline.

“You alright?” Jack asks.

Making the executive decision to just ignore what happened, Bitty doesn't answer, instead focusing on cutting a generous slice of pie and putting it on one of the plates. He pushes it under Jack’s nose. “Eat,” he commands, and Jack, looking amused and almost– _ fond _ –complies, picking up a fork.

Bitty cuts his own, more modest slice, grabbing a plate and climbing onto Jack’s bed. Jack raises his eyebrows. “Eating on  _ my _ bed?” he asks mildly, but joins Bitty, sitting close enough that Bitty can feel the heat of his body from thigh to shoulder.

They eat in silence for a couple minutes, savoring both the pie and the moment–one of the few quiet ones in the Haus. Jack clears his throat. “This is good,” he says, looking at Bitty. 

Even in the darkness of the room, only illuminated by moonlight and a single lamp by Jack’s laptop, Bitty can feel Jack’s warm, steady gaze on him. Abruptly, he realizes he can’t tell whether Jack’s talking about the pie or something else. 

He drops his eyes to his plate, pokes at a bit of leftover crust. “Thanks,” he finally says, clearing his throat. The silence settles in the room again, but it's comfortable, and Jack doesn't seem to mind. There's even a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth as he eats, carefully cutting bites of pie from his slice with his fork. 

The distant happy sounds of the rest of the team downstairs provide a nice backdrop, and Bitty thinks he could stay here forever, warm and happy with good food and a cute boy next to him. His eyelids feel heavy, and he’s suddenly struggling to keep them open. He’s been up since five in the morning to bake pies, and he’s feeling every one of those hours right now, sleepy and tired and content.

Distantly, Bitty feels Jack take the fork and plate out of his hands, but he’s so tired that it takes all his energy to keep his eyelids open, so he doesn’t protest. His head droops forwards again, and he manages to catch himself a second before he feels Jack’s hands on his shoulders steadying him. “Careful there,” he says. “You want to go back to your room and get some sleep?”

The words barely register in Bitty’s head, he’s so tired. “Mmmm,” he mumbles. Jack’s hands are pleasantly cool. Without thinking, Bitty finds himself leaning forwards until he’s resting his head against Jack’s stomach. His abs really are nice. He thinks about telling Jack that, but it would take so much energy and it seems so much nicer to just press his nose into the fabric of Jack’s shirt, smelling Jack’s aftershave and the smell of ice that always seems to follow him around, even during the off season. 

“Hey,” Jack says, his voice a little softer, but he doesn’t try to move Bitty away. “You sure you don’t want to get into your bed?”

“Left the key downstairs,” Bitty mumbles into his shirt. “Don’t wanna move.”

Jack laughs softly at that, and Bitty feels the vibrations in Jack’s stomach through his entire body. “Well, I’m going to have to move eventually,” he tells Bitty, who makes a nonplussed sound and doesn’t change position at all.

Finally, Jack shakes his head, sighing, and gently supporting Bitty’s head and neck, lowers him down onto Jack’s bed. “You can stay here for the night, then,” he says. Dimly, Bitty feels Jack lifting the comforter over him, tucking it over his shoulders carefully. 

“What ‘bout you,” Bitty murmurs sleepily, already half asleep. He presses his face into the pillow. It's nice. Jack’s bed is nice. Jack is–

“I'll be fine,” Jack says. “I can stay on the couch–”

“No,” Bitty says petulantly, tugging at the bottom of his shirt. “ ‘S your room, I can't kick you out of it–”

“It'll be fine, Bittle,” Jack answers, but Bitty doesn't let go of his shirt, and after a second, Jack sighs and sits down on the side of the bed, one hand on the curve of Bitty’s shoulder through the blanket. “Where do you want me to sleep, then?”

Reluctantly, Bitty tugs an arm out from his warm cocoon and gestures vaguely at the other side of Jack’s bed. “Your bed’s really big,” he mumbles sleepily. “Could fit two people better than that old couch could fit you.”

He's distantly aware of what he's saying, but most of it seems to lose its edge in the hazy fog of sleep. At the very least, Jack seems to take pity on him and his defenseless state, because he doesn't say anything for a few seconds, like he's considering something.

“Okay,” he says finally, and Bitty feels the bed shift as he stands up.

“Mmm,” he says, blindly reaching out to pull Jack back towards the bed.

“It's alright, Bittle, I'm just going to bring these dishes downstairs,” Jack says, sounding amused. Bitty hears the clink of silverware on some plates.

He groans, turning his face into the pillow. “If you end up sleeping on the couch, you're gonna answer to me tomorrow,” he grumbles, although his voice is mostly muffled by the pillow and it comes out a little garbled.

Jack laughs again, softly. “Don't worry,” he says. “I'll be back.” He picks up the plates, and Bitty hears the soft sound of his bare feet padding to the door, before it shuts with a quiet  _ snick _ .

He must drop off after that, because it seems like only a few minutes before he feels someone sitting down on the opposite side of the bed. The room is dark already, except for the lamp on the bedside table. 

For a few seconds, all Bitty can hear are the quiet sounds of Jack shifting around on the bed, getting ready to sleep. His drawer opens and closes, then Bitty hears him set down a book on the table and climb under the covers, the mattress settling under his weight. Bitty would say something, but he's too tired and too comfortable to even begin to form any words, so he contents himself with listening to Jack’s steady breathing and feeling the warmth radiating off Jack’s back instead as he reads.

He’s on the edge of falling asleep again when he hears Jack set the book on the table and lie down on the bed, tugging the blankets over his shoulders. Softly, he says, “Goodnight, Bittle.”

The lamp clicks off.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Regarding the title: "Are we talking about pi? Are we talking about Jack Zimmermann's ass? We'll never know." -pocketcourf
> 
> 2\. Ransom and Holster are wearing [this t-shirt](https://www.etsy.com/listing/244597740/cookin-pies-with-my-baby), except with "baby" replaced by "Bitty." Every person in the Haus owns one and is contractually obligated to wear it on Pi Day. (Shitty probably made them himself out Lardo's stencils and multiple cans of spray paint.)


End file.
